"No wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise."

The Lobster Quadrille will forever, now, be set to Massive Attack's "Karmacoma."  Just give it a try. 

Queen of Hearts

I've been seeing her everywhere.  Had to shake her.  Onto paper. 

Third of Three.

gruff. Gruff. GRUFF.

Gruff 2

Billy the kid. 

Gruff.

Eyes as big as dinner plates. 

Heigh. Ho.

In mining territory.

Door.

Our door to nowhere has me filling in blanks. 

Hybrid.

Something, something, something.

Little Birdie.

Indulge your delusions of grandeur.

Centuries old.

Resisting the urge to tint these briars rose.

March winds

and April showers.

Is it Bernard?

A little crooked, but isn't that always the way with promises made over spindles?

Kiss that frog.

To me, always the most disagreeable of heroines.

And again.

Insomnia in pastel. Part 3.

Part 2

Minding my peas and quilts.

I can't get no sleep.

The Firebird.

Not quite ablaze. 

Apt.

The best passage from Andersen also happens to be one of the most wintry.

Racing turtles.

More tortuga for you.

Sakes alive, son.

A Morla morning.

Ivan to know.

Trying to imitate Bilibin, it just ended up looking like a paint by numbers.

Season's eatings.

 

Sugarplum.



 

 

Waiting and watchful.

Little'uns.

 

 

There is no other Troy for you to burn.

A different generation, I grant you.  Medea.

Missing R. Holdstock with a fury right now. 

Ys.

Dreaming lightly.

Feathers into snow.

Old Mother Hulda, cleaning out the lofts. 

Jacked.

This is what wishing out of your bedroom window gets you.  Trouble by the beanful.

Climbing up the walls.

Also.  Let down and hanging around.

Up, up in the air.

Cumulo-nymphus.

Variations on a theme.

Lost Tails.  Giving an oldie some sprucing.

Town mouse and country mouse.

For the record, I like to eat my dinner uninterrupted, too.

Night folk.

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

                                            Tennyson,  The Owl

Been told that this still doesn't count as cute.

Part 2

"Shines when the sunset shifts."

A Venusian tint to the day.

Red Rider.

Over the river and through the woods.

Bumpanalia.

Happy birthday to the Van de Babies. 

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Sticking with a theme. 

Crooks and nannies.

There's always a free corner.

Waited hours.

The fridge has been playing The Cure's "Close to Me" for weeks now.  Baking has become something of a dancefest. 

Climbing up the walls.

And leaving scuffs.

Too coooold, mama.

Earth below us, drifting, falling.

Earthly.

After industrialization, the winged ones inhabiting the Rust Belt began to evolve--doffing their pale colors in favor of a more telluric shade. When asked how it was achieved, the King's answer was brief, "Easily dun."

The Boo Crew.

Inky, Blinky, Pinky, Clyde.

Fourth.

"Inky"

Stained fingers and smudged shirts.

And, still.

"Blinky"

In true memoriam. He wears small grey cats. Also, the bushes were full of Ennui today.

Continued.

"Clyde"
Practically line for line.

Revisiting some old friends.

"Pinky"

I never walk anywhere after noon as the only greeting I can bear to use is "Mornin' ".

Writing on the wall.

Not in the Belshazzarian sense.

No Standing.

Guttersnipe.

Esp. fond of shoestrings.